


These Boots Are Made For Fighting

by Kayim



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Comment Fic, Community: fic_promptly, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-25
Updated: 2011-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:51:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayim/pseuds/Kayim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: Star Trek, Kirk/McCoy, Every time Kirk gets a new pair of boots McCoy winds up dragging him out of a bar fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Boots Are Made For Fighting

It seems to McCoy that the newness of Jim Kirk's boots is directly proportional to the man's lack of common sense.

They’re out celebrating Jim’s Kobayashi Maru success, sitting in a cheap bar miles away from the Academy. After a few drinks, Jim starts showing off the boots he picked up for an obscene amount of money. McCoy has to admit that they look good on him - authentic 20th century cowboy boots, brown leather worn and sun-bleached - but Jim always has to take things one step further.

He turns to the men at the next table. Huge, beefy men who McCoy suspects have no interest in classic fashion, but Jim waves his leather-clad feet towards them. Between the alcohol and the new boots, Jim loses all inhibitions.

"Whaddya reckon, boys?" McCoy swallows down the last of his whiskey as soon as Jim starts talking. He's seen this scenario enough times to know how it's going to end and guesses they're going to need to get out of the place quickly. "How hot are these things?"

McCoy pushes his seat away from the table. Not even those ridiculously tight denim pants that Jim is wearing can make him feel anything but irritation right now. "Time to go," he tells him, tugging at Jim's arm. "Let's leave these nice gentlemen alone."

Jim looks back and forth between McCoy and the men, oblivious to the way they're clenching their fists and grinding their teeth. "But they wanna see my boots, Bones. Heh. Boots Bones. Bones boots."

McCoy shakes his head and throws an apologetic look at the men - a look that says 'sorry about the drunk, you know what they're like' - but he can already sense that Jim's gone too far. Again. He briefly toys with the idea of leaving him there, but knows he won't.

The fight is over quickly. Even drunk, Jim Kirk is a better bare-fist brawler than most, and the two men had already drunk their own share of cheap beer. McCoy flings a few credits onto the bar to pay for the broken chairs, and lets Jim lean on him as they leave.

As the cool air hits them both, Jim stops and pulls at McCoy's jacket until they're standing face to face with barely a hairs breadth between them. "I don' think they liked my boots," Jim slurs. "You like 'em though, Bones, dontcha?"

McCoy brushes his fingers across Jim cheek. "Yes, Jim," he says as the younger man leans in to snuggle against his collarbone. "I like them just fine."


End file.
